


Pride of the Job

by SiciKoiz



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Crime Fighting, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, l.a noire au, will be updated at least once a week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiciKoiz/pseuds/SiciKoiz
Summary: In a convoluted web of illicit crimes and the dark mafia underworld puppeteering police departments, P.I Arthur Morgan strived to maintain the best of intentions, albeit at times irritatingly so.With a case leading him to a well-trodden path of old friends and new enemies, and a woman too irresistible to keep out, what sort of revelations will he end up unraveling?An L.A Noire au - amalgamated with various whodunnit inspirations
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. 0. Prologue

It looked red. The scarlet, or velvet, type of red. Its hue remained conspicuous all over the floor, oozing out like the fresh diminishing tip of a painter’s brush, ultimately leaving a spoor. Like the spread of a wildfire, seeping into the soft fabric of familiar chestnut carpet, the blood did not cease to exist.

John Marston subconsciously accepted the fact that he was dying.

But he refused to pass on this easy. No, there was unfinished business. 

And whoever deemed it necessary to uncover the truth, laden with the most clandestine of opportune doors and dead-ends, needed to know. John knew he wouldn’t make it. But he knew someone else would.

He gloved one hand onto a fist, the other reaching out to close the door and locking it. With an agonised grimace etched on his face, John dropped by the carpet, back leaned against a wall, the last of his breath leaving him. This was it.

* * *

Abigail Marston had errands to run. 

In an almost orthodox manner, she entered her house to drop a plastic of daily groceries, and quickly jogged towards their kitchen countertop to grab Jack’s iron clad lunch-box. Abigail shook her head ruefully. _Ain’t the silly boy always forgetful’_

Amidst the commotion of mundane chores, she swore she heard her job calling for her; After all, she was running late. But if it meant her son would be sheepishly starving in the middle of the afternoon, Abigail would prefer being scolded by her higher ups at least once in a while. 

“John, I’m off again!” She informed, her voice eerily resonating; Even more so when there was no answer. “Honey? You there?” 

_Odd, he was supposed to have the day off, ain’t he? ___

__Trudging away from the living room, Abigail felt a soft mush moving underneath her heels. There were assortments of folders and papers scattered in front of his office down the long- mostly wooden hallway. With a soft nudge from her feet, she placed a few of the papers under short scrutiny._ _

__Work. It was all work. But why here?_ _

__Worrisome, she knocked on his door, gently at first._ _

__“John? John are you there?” She spoke into the door, only to find no answers to her question._ _

__Abigail continued, each knock stronger than the other as time went fleeting by transiently._ _

__“Are you drunk again you degenerate?”_ _

__Again, no answer._ _

__“I’m getting mighty sick of this-“ With a huff, she proceeded to reach for her pockets and fumbled for the right keys, knowing the room was almost usually locked._ _

__Being hasty and irritated, Abigail clicked the door correctly, swinging it open. She gaped her lips wide ready to chastise her husband until,_ _

_**Blood, a lot of blood.** _

__That was the red: an umbrella of damp stagnant blood that encompassed much of the carpet, and in the middle of it, John Marston._ _

__Unconsciously, Abigail dropped everything she was carrying. Her purse, Jack’s lunch, and before she knew it, she was kneeling down motionless, tears carving furrows down her tender cheeks. Her lipped curled and her nostrils flared at the sight._ _

__Screaming; That was all she could do._ _

* * *

__Immediately after, Uncle rushed to the scene, and by the time they contacted the Saint Denis Police Department, there was nothing the both of them could do._ _

__Abigail never expected the crosses; The yellow elongated tapes, all stretched up and bundled all so carefully by the officers that came. The line that separated the illicit and the innocuous. Oh, the irony._ _

__They told both Abigail and Uncle not to tamper with the crime scene until their routine detective arrives, before offering them the usual condolences and grievances, almost like they were used to it. At the very least, it comforted Abigail, whose face wrinkled in distress and a never-ending cry. Uncle was doing his best to console the weeping woman besides him, who since the discovery had not imparted a single word._ _

__All she knew and was able to digest were two things:_ _

__John Marston was dead_ _

__And he had definitely been murdered._ _


	2. I. Molasses for the Coyote

The S.D.P.D was irretrievably infiltrated; Usurped and beyond redemption. 

The way he sees it, the only saving-grace or so, for the remains of its foul and blighted integrity were left to probably (and impossibly) destroying the Van Der Linde Group, which in retrospect would not yet solve the impending issue of Saint Denis' Chief of Police corroborating a new gang of mobsters for even more wicked posterity.

He had never thought he’d live to see the day the last of the Van Der Linde all prospering, mirror-like to his wretched father. This was not the first time it had happened of course, but surely, the masses should’ve learned by now when and when not to repeat history. Or at the very least, discerning one another. 

Oh, Dutch.

As if the front and centre on the day’s paper wasn’t enough proof. That bastard’s face, his figure over the new opening of a second arson department was subtle but clear enough blow to anyone clinging on hope for an end to mobsters running amok in town.

The private-investigator knew this did no favours to his ever plaguing migraine, and the throbbing pain that perpetuated its way through the surfaces of his forehead, or wherever the hell it may want to be. Guiltily enough, the man blamed the glistening morning rays that came to alight his increasing consciousness.

In an instant, he popped a few aspirin into his mouth and swallowed it dry, before reaching forth for his cigars. They were stupidly expensive, imported from some island in Cuba. Guarma, if he correctly remembered. 

He tapped them gently on the table, carefully as to not efface out the substance inside, and tucked it on the corner of his pursed lips. The zippo was carried with slight hesitation and low hasty tremors, but he still managed to light up his cigar to a shimmery haze of smoke. Smoking; One transient moment of erratic pulls to regulate his breathing and to calm the pounding migraines, to boot. Which was ironic, considering it probably isn’t all that healthy for the human body. But it helped, at least for the state he was in; Unless he somehow was careless enough to contract Tuberculosis, or something.

Frequently, he offered gazes at whatever bullshit appeared on the newspaper, as well as the empty desk a few feet away from him, to pass whatever time left he has inside here. 

No Lenny, huh.

Soon after, discerned only through the cheap lenses of panes and transparent blue windows, was someone’s gait. It piqued his interest. Usually, he was able to, albeit surface layer, decide of someone’s dispositions through their gait and stances. This one held a sense of urgency; A feminine walk followed by paved clicks of tall heels, producing sounds that mimicked that of his own homemade clock ticking time away in surprisingly the same tempo.

He shook his head, shooing away whatever was left of the mindless arrays of thoughts that plagued him. The door opened. 

She was incredibly beautiful. Young, and definitely way out of his league. Straight, and fairly short blonde hair that only reached the end of her pale neck, tucked away over her ear with the help of an elegantly-placed headband. The woman’s eyes, blue and bright, glazed over the surroundings and raced through anything that stroke her fancy, before resting her gaze on the man in front of her. Her lips were glossed with a darker, antagonising shade of red, and it lifted slowly. 

“Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur felt goosebumps creeping its way over the nape of his neck, an eyebrow raised at the way his name was pronounced in her strong British accent. How uncommon; Though with the ever aggressive expansion of Saint Denis, he in retrospect should’ve expected about anyone of any nationality migrating over. 

Unsatisfied with the silence that pervaded the room, the woman gently nudged the tip of her heels to close the tall door; She wore a dark verdant gown made of soft satiny fabric, short and tight - which gave her much more ease in sitting down on the wooden chair in front of the desk. 

There was a placard, sitting ever so stationary on it. ‘Private Investigator’ was written on it, and for whatever reason, it prompted a tug - a small smile on the woman’s face, before she looked at Arthur expectantly. 

“I’m sorry, can I help you miss…”

“Call me Y/n” 

The detective rubbed the short scathed scar on his chin, covered seamlessly by his rough beard; He immediately retracted his finger, flinching at the fresh wound from a few nights back. 

With work coming in slow, and the most eventful of commissions being to find some dying grandma’s runaway nephew, Arthur spent the most impressionable of his free time drinking his sorrows away, usually alone if not with Charles. He immediately regretted the thought, noticing that (Y/n)’s eyes drifted onto his chin, too. 

“Does it hurt?” (Y/n) inquired, nonchalantly.

“A lil, I guess. Anyway, y/n…” Arthur paused. It sounded familiar; Or at least rolled off his tongue right.

“That’s right.”

“Glad to see ya then, miss. What can I help you with?” Arthur cleared his throat, tightening the strong knot on his striped tie, maintaining the least, bare minimum of professionalism around his office. He trashed out the dregs of his cigars on an ashtray under his desk, fishing it away. 

“I was looking for someone with your abilities. It seems I’m in urgent need of one.” 

“Abilities?” He was taken aback.

“You solve cases, yes? I need you to do just that.” She insisted, placing one leg over another. The way (Y/n) sees it, she was conversing matters at a way faster pace, or at least beyond the detective’s intermittent mind at this tempo.

“Well, I guess that’s quite right. But- well it’s gonna cost - money.” 

“Of course. I’m quite confident that’s how social dealings work, Mr. Morgan. I ask of you to do something, and you get paid. That’s commerce, is it not?” She inquisitively stared at him, three fingers tapping the desk’s wooden surface in a familiar pattern. “Or are you doubting my ability to pay?” 

“N-No I meant-“ Arthur pressed the corners of his eyes with his thumb, sighing away the throbbing pain that forcefully flared up once more. “Well I weren’t able to help nothin’ of it”

“Right. No wrong in that, I assure you.”

“Is that so?” He stifled a snicker. “What game are we playing at, here?” 

“Whatever you decide it to be.” She picked up Arthur’s cigar, retaining the dregs of it, and smoking. (Y/n) then used her free hand to search through her large purse, pulling out a bent file folder and gently passing it over the desk. “This was yesterday. Officers barely laid a finger on the investigation. Something about administration being ready to rule it out as suicide.” 

Without much hesitation, Arthur plucked out every paper inside the folder, quickly placing each and as much detail under scrutiny, all the while (Y/n) carefully watched with mild amusement. It was a small tinge of realisation. Sure, abandoning the case quickly could stem from many possible reasons; Perhaps a lack of resources, or perhaps so as he would have suspected it, corruption for whatever reason conceivable.

The victim was a family man, by the name of John Marston; Owned a small accounting company of sorts. Left a widow with one boy. No one knew when he was murdered, much less if he was even murdered. That was it. Short and concise. 

“This, all’?” 

“Indeed so, Mr. Morgan. Don’t worry, I’m just as baffled as you, might be right now.” She blew one more out of his cigar before settling it back on the metal ash tray, noticing the abundance of the cigar’s remains from even before. 

“I don’t- I don’t know.” Arthur unwinded his back, retreating his forwarded stance to a more hasty one. “Cases like these ma’am- look I’m sure there’s a reason the police’s ruling this whole, fiasco a suicide. Maybe it sure is suicide for hell I know huh?” He lightly chuckled to an unamused, grimacing (Y/n). “I’m a glorified detective, I don’t even know if they’ll allow some goon like me roaming around some goddamn crime scene.”

“I’m well connected Mr. Morgan. You just leave that to me.”

“But, still-“

“But what?” (Y/n) had cut him off, with large keen emphasis on her words.

“But we don’t know nothing on what we’re gettin’ into Y/n. That’s what. Last thing I’d want my career to be is endangering some lady’s life. Much less, losing the job.” Arthur gritted his teeth, scraping it on dry arched lips. 

To his own, personal chagrin she didn’t storm off the room in an outburst, nor did she calm her frown, and leave. (Y/n) squinted her eyes, its rueful gaze scrunched under black subtle lashes. 

God, she was divine. As (Y/n) stood up, Arthur pondered two things: 

Whether he was exasperatingly surprised at her candour and ever-so imposing demeanour, or at the preposterously low neckline of her verdant dress; One that well accentuated the soft swell of her breasts and the curviness of her thin waist. She must be doing this on purpose, no?

“Out of everything I had expected you to do Arthur Morgan, giving up a case as trivial as this- in almost an instant, was probably at the very last.” (Y/n) tucked a finger in between her parted lips, soot eyes ruefully rolling. “You spoke out. All tempestuous and in office, somewhere during spring of 39’. Following day you received a dismissal notice, and ever since then all your work has been privately commissioned.” 

“How in the hell do you know so much woman?” Looming over her small figure as he in turn stood up scowling, Arthur removed his beige coat out of his three-piece accoutrement suit. 

“That doesn’t matter. At least not right now, Mr. Morgan. But think of it this way: You have unfinished business. The way I see it, you damn well know something the lot of us still don’t. And fact of the matter is, I know something you don’t. If you just follow through this once, perhaps this can be something of mutual benefit, hm?”

(Y/n) offered a glance at the office’s clock, musing in short harmony shortly afterwards, which sounded ominously congenial.

“Well, I suppose you’ve wasted my time enough. The offer still stands, Mr. Morgan, but time is running out.” She added, fumbling her car keys out her purse and turning away, leaving the wake of metaphorical and vaguely formed debris all for the man behind her. After all, he still had zero idea why she intended to hire his work for this specifically. 

In its entirety, their conversation also perplexed her. (Y/n) barely had any idea if she turned the interaction the way she had intended it it to go, though she had hoped at the very least he would now be considering the idea.

“Wait.” Arthur fished out cigarettes this time; Premium ones too at the very least. He picked up his work-suitcase, and slumped over his beige coat over his right shoulder. 

“Hm?” 

“If I go, can I smoke in your car?” He asked, voice swathed in vain at the expense of a growing grin. 

Smirking, (Y/n) slowly tramped her way to him, hand reaching out to yank the knot of his striped tie looser, before letting it go.“Well that was way easier than I had anticipated. Sure thing, Mr. Morgan.” 

“Call me Arthur.” 

(Y/n) paused, pursing her lips. “Alright Arthur. Let’s go then.”


End file.
